After that first night, Aglaia and the ayah travelled in a litter, as ladies of high rank. The child's skin was stained, so that she might pass for an Indian, and Subdul, whose resources were boundless, managed to get a suitable dress for the ayah. As a general rule they camped out in the open, when Aglaia would amuse them with her quaint ways and sayings. Some days she would be as happy as if nothing had happened. At other times she cried piteously for her mother and father, and it was only when the ayah, who had a vivid imagination, assured her that she had seen God carrying them away to heaven that she would be pacified. 'Why didn't He take me too?' she would sometimes ask, a question which none of them found it easy to answer.
Happily for herself she had not, like other little ones, seen the horror that would ever after haunt them like a nightmare; and, day by day, as new scenes passed before her eyes, and fresh experiences greeted her, the memory of her nurse's frenzied flight, and of the two days in the garden, grew fainter. She still thought of her parents, but it was reproachfully, rather than sadly. They might have taken her with them when they went up to God. But this, after all, was ayah's fault, rather than theirs. Ayah had taken her away and hidden her. Tom said she had hidden her for him, which to Aglaia, who was now as deeply devoted to him as she had been on board the 'Patagonia,' was a sufficient explanation.
So, after several days and nights of travelling, they reached the borders of Gumilcund.
What an entry it was! Stranger even and more memorable than the young rajah's first arrival in the city that he was called upon to govern.
Runners had been sent out in every direction to seek for him, and when, late in the afternoon of a sultry June day, one of these came back with the joyful news that their rajah, bringing fugitives with him, was actually within the boundaries of the state, the enthusiasm of the people could no longer be suppressed. They poured out in their hundreds, armed men accompanying them, while in front of them rode Chunder Singh, the minister, and Vishnugupta, the priest, and when they saw the little group—the litter and its bearers, and the two horsemen riding beside it—joyous acclamations and shouts of welcome, and ejaculations of praise and thanksgiving, rent the air.
[CHAPTER XXVI]
CAPTAIN BERTIE'S FAQUIR
In Meerut those days had been days of trouble. On the 24th of May, the day following General Elton's arrival in the city, a strong detachment had marched out to join the troops that were fighting their way to Delhi. Many of the residents were of opinion that this decrease in their defensive force would seriously affect their safety; and night after night there were panics. But nothing happened. The rebels, who were daily and hourly being recruited by fresh regiments, had higher game to fly at, and it would not have suited their purpose to sit down before a strong and well-provisioned place like Meerut and wait for its surrender. This the principal men of the station began to realise at last, so that there was a greater sense of security.
In the tent where the Eltons lived there was deep distress and sorrow, for the General was dangerously ill. Fatigue, exposure, and mental anguish, aggravated by the pain of his wound, which proved more serious than they had at first imagined, had done their work. So long as the strain was upon him he kept up. When it was relaxed he fell. But for the perfection of his health and the iron strength of his will, he must have died that night. For himself, it may have been fortunate that his senses soon deserted him; but piteous it was to the poor women who loved and honoured him to hear the wild ravings of those awful days and nights. It was all about his soldiers. They were his children, his little ones. He believed in them, as he believed in himself. Springing up in bed, he would call the bystanders to witness how brave and true they were. He would challenge an imaginary adversary to question their faithfulness, asserting his own intimate knowledge of their character. Again and again he would recite the brilliant deeds of arms to which he had led them, and relate how they had delivered him from a cruel death. His gentle wife, waiting patiently by his bedside, wept bitterly as she listened. With all her dread of the future, and passionate sorrow and pity, she feared his returning to himself. If he was to be taken away, would it not be better for his sake that he should go now, before his heart was pierced by the dread knowledge of the truth? And as day after day went by, bringing little or no change in his condition, they began to fear that so it would be.